For The Best
by seaglasssoul
Summary: Yato knows what he has to do to protect her.


A/N: Welp. Might as well crash my way into the Noragami fandom with some good ol' fashioned angst. This is because of some beautiful art by tumblr user eerna that spiraled out of control with my and other people's tags, and, well, here you go.

* * *

He always likes watching her. Not in a creepy way, just in a slightly disbelieving, is-she-really-still-here kind of way. From his usual vantage point in the tree abutting her window, he studies how she pulls her hair, a deep, fertile brown, into a messy bun behind her head with practiced ease. It's a movement he's seen often enough around Kofuku's place when she's getting ready to help them clean, or right before she rolls up her sleeves to help Daikoku cook. He commits it to memory because it's also a movement he'll never see again.

Somehow he never gets to observe her for long, and he sees her stiffen inside before turning on a heel to come throw open the window and whisper-yell, "Yato, I know you're there! Stop hanging around like a stray cat and come say hi, sheesh."

That's his cue. Standing tiredly, he offers her a weak smile before swinging through the window and getting hit with the overwhelming presence of her smell. It drenches her room, that subtle citrus, and it feels so much like home that he's not sure he can do what he came here for.

"Yato, are you okay? You seem…a bit out of it." Magenta eyes peer up at him worriedly, and he reaches back to scratch his neck before replying, "No, I'm uh, I'm fine. Just had a little, um, fight with Yukine. Nothing major." He's always had trouble lying when it looks like she can gaze into his soul.

She frowns. "Oh, that's no good. Will he be stopping by, too? Maybe I can help you two work it out."

 _Deep breaths. Keep it together._ "Yeah, he'll actually be coming by in just a little bit. Tenjin needed his help finishing some chores." Maybe one day he'll be able to forgive himself for these small lies to her. Surely they pale in comparison to the mountain of pain he's caused her.

Hiyori narrows her eyes and gestures to the bed. "Well, all right then. We can wait for him together." Realizing the innuendo, she blushes and squeaks, "I-I'm going to try painting my nails in spirit form, on the bed, where you can sit and talk to me; there will be nothing else going on!" She literally jumps out of her skin in embarrassment, her physical body crumpling to the floor while she catches her breath.

Mechanically, Yato nods and says, "Of course not," before sitting on the edge of her bed, hands listless by his side. How is he going to do this? How _can_ he do this?

After curling her body into the fetal position on the ground with a huffed, 'good enough,' she walks over to him and reaches for his forehead, tail lashing behind her. "Are you sure you're all right? You'd usually never let me live something like that down."

Her hand is a brand across his forehead, the familiarity of her touch too much for him to handle right now. He leans back and mumbles, "What were you saying about painting your toenails in spirit form? Wouldn't that make them soul-nails?"

She smacks him lightly, grumbling about puns, and clambers over the bed to sit facing the opposite wall as she screws open the base coat.

Yato grants himself another look, knowing he's too greedy but unable to really care right now, drinking in the innocent pink of her polka dotted skirt and the way her white cami reveals strong back muscles. She's always been strong, even before she met him, and he clings to this thought the way a child clings to the thought of magic long after they know it isn't real. Despite her pleas to not leave her, she's never really needed him, a fact Yato finds himself repeating over and over in his mind until the pain turns to numbness. He's doing this for her. He can't keep putting her in danger; the hospital was the last straw on an already overburdened camel. It's time to make things right.

The air is still in her room, just the gentle creaking of the bed when she leans to paint another toenail breaking the silence. Yato begins to slump sideways on the bed until his feet are near her pillows, and lets gravity take control when that position proves too tenuous since he's so close to the edge. He's always been good at going with the flow. From his new position on the floor, he settles his feet near her pillows and stretches alongside the edge of the bed, wrist tucked behind his head as a casual pillow.

The tip of her cord peeks in and out of his sight while he stares at the ceiling, swaying to the gentle rhythm of her focused painting. It begins to dip closer and closer to his face, though, and he reaches up to hold it on instinct. Belatedly, he realizes that _this is her soul_ and that she's probably uncomfortable with this level of intimacy, but as he begins to withdraw his hand he hears a faint, "It's fine. You can um, you can hold it. It doesn't hurt or anything."

The melody of her voice entrances him, draws him in, and he feels the hand holding her cord start to tingle. How he wishes he could hear that voice forever. But he's a god while she's a human, and suddenly it's like he's back in the underworld, trapped, out of place as a living being among the dead. Only this time he's immortal, watching a girl he loves and trusts so much constantly put her one life on the line for him, and who is going to save her? He's always been unworthy.

It doesn't matter that he hasn't belonged anywhere until he met her, doesn't matter that she eases his heart and brings laughter bubbling from his lips. Nothing matters if she's gone, and so to protect her, he has to let her go. The tightness in his chest returns and it's like his soul is aching, calling out one last time to the spiritual manifestation of hers cradled so tenderly in his hand.

He feels something tug at his heart and before he can process what it could be, he's inundated with images and emotions that surge like electricity from her cord. Visions zip through his consciousness, some intelligible and others not, but the ones he can make sense of chill his being to the core. There she is, spit flying from her lips as she screams and batters against the cursed door trapping her and Kazuma in Takamagahara before his showdown with Bishamon. Whatever is happening lets him feel her anger, her fear, her despair, all of it for him. The image fades, replaced with her terrified face as she yells into the Underworld for him, each call laced with fear and worry and desperation. He sees, for the first time, the initial look upon her face when she figured out his real name, and his heart breaks at the relief that flashes through those bottomless eyes when she calls it. He wonders if she knows how much she's healed the dark cracks inside him.

The final image is one he knows all too well, one that keeps him up at night while Yukine snores softly beside him. They're back on the rooftop together, her anguished cries to _take her with him_ now accompanied by a landslide of emotion that tears into his heart like a rabid animal. The bitter loneliness, the surety that no one could possibly accept her anymore crashes through him in waves, and he wants nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare so he can rid her of these memories for good.

But there's one more that shimmers into life before him, a scene he hasn't seen before. She's talking to his father, of all people, words flying back and forth until his father comments that she must love Yato to be so protective of him. Through the embarrassment and anger that Fujisaki could rile her up so easily, Yato feels the unmistakable warmth of love flood her veins at the thought of him, her Yato. The image shatters the same moment his heart does, and Hiyori's room comes into focus briefly before being blurred by tears that run silently down his cheeks.

She loves him, too. She loves him, and Yato chokes back a sob because they _still_ can't be together, he _still_ can't take away her humanity by letting her waste her precious life years on him. He's been selfish for too long as it is, and it's time to think of the greater good for once in his _fucking_ life.

"Hey, Yato?" Hiyori asks, quietly, like a secret. "Next time would _you_ paint my nails?"

His throat constricts. The lump in his throat makes his voice come out rough and low when he replies, "Sure thing, Hiyori."

The smile in her voice when she says, "I can't wait," wounds him more than vitriol ever could.

There's a knock on her window and Hiyori bounces up, exclaiming, "Yukine!" while heading to open it up.

Yato hopes Tenjin and Kazuma could talk enough sense into him to let this happen as quickly as possible. When Yukine shuffles through the window and meets his gaze, Yato sees anger, betrayal, and, thankfully, resignation rolling across his weapon's features. He doesn't even need to call his name for Yukine to transform for him, thoughts of _you better make this quick_ echoing across their shared mind.

Hiyori looks confused and then wary, taking two steps back when she sees the tortured look in Yato's eyes. "No," she whispers, realization twisting her face into a horrified grimace. "You can't!"

With a deep breath, he summons the ties that bind them and watches them swirl around their bodies in the symbol of forever, but he's been around long enough to know there's no such thing.

He doesn't think he can shove enough air through his constricted throat to say more than, "Goodbye, Hiyori," before he's swinging _Sekki_ and their bonds are parting like a hot knife through spider's silk.

He's always liked watching her. Now, when he sees her on his regular check-ins, her hair streaked with grey, he reminds himself for the thousandth time that this was for the best, that she could be happy without him. Cloudy magenta eyes find him staring from across the street, devoid of the warmth they once housed, and she walks across to greet him.

"Do I know you?" she asks, voice deeper and richer with age.

For the thousandth time, he answers, "No, you don't."


End file.
